The army of the Pretender encircled the high rock of the castle, armed with bullets and steel and Parliament. They would win. There was no question of that.
The commander of the castle walked its wall, speaking words of encouragement to his men, offering easy smiles in the face of difficult defeat. He looked upon stones as old as the land and prayed in the church of his kings.
His kings, not theirs. His king was king here still, even if England and half of Scotland had spurned him. He would bend no knee to the continental interlopers, to invaders invited by treasonous plotters.
Here, in this castle, the Kings of Scotland had reigned. Here Queen Mary bore King James, first king to rule all Great Britain: united by peace and not by war. Here they had kept crown and jewels safe from the Roundheads.
And now that royal line was cast aside for the Pretender. All that history abandoned.
In the early morning air, he heard the call of the bagpipes, echoing across crag and castle and he smiled.
No matter what false king sat on the throne, the stones of Edinburgh would only know one.
Word Count: 197
For Sunday Photo Fiction. Thanks to Susan for running the challenge and C.E. Ayr for providing the prompt photo!